


He Was Not Safe

by orphan_account



Series: Wrong & Right [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burns, Gen, Happy Ending, Near Death Experiences, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:20:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines was never wrong, he always told himself.  </p><p>Stanley Pines was fine, Stanley Pines was okay, Stanley Pines could handle himself.  He has personality.  People love charisma.  Stanley Pines was safe.</p><p>Stanley Pines was not safe, he told himself then.  </p><p>Stanford Pines was not allowed that comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Was Not Safe

Stanford Pines was never wrong, he always told himself. He wouldn't think otherwise. He couldn't afford to be. For once, however, he couldn't have that luxury. In the end, he had no one to blame but himself, the heavy weight on his shoulders he once brushed off as his own intelligent mind became a crushing force, toppling from his high horse and leaving him how he should have been long ago.

He knows this.

Stanley Pines was fine, he always told himself.

Stanley Pines was okay.

Stanley Pines has personality.

People love charisma.

Stanley Pines can handle himself.

Stanley Pines was safe.

Stanley Pines wasn't safe.

His mantra was no longer a comfort but a searing brand in his mind of his own stupidity, worse than the one he cause his own brother thirty years ago.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself.

Stanley Pines wasn't fine, he told himself.

Stanley couldn't be fine after that fight. If anything else, the only other thing that still pierced his mind was the blood curdling screams which turned hoarse and the smell of burnt skin and cloth. He could still see the visage of his brother, crumpling to the ground as…as that vile demon cackled with glee. He could still remember the gleam in that large eye, crinkled at the edges as though it were smiling. He could even see his brother's fez, tossed haphazardly off his head in the midst of the battle. It became a priority to retrieve it when Stanley was safe.

Stanley Pines wasn't safe, though.

Stanley laid in bed, coiled in bandages like a mummy from the movies they used to watch a lifetime ago when they were still children, innocent and joined at the hip. An assortment of wires and tubes poked through gaps in the bandages and gown. Beside the bed, the end table was covered in a growing pile of mementos. Cards, flowers, a stuffed toy or two with a scrawled wish of wellness on its shirt. Stanford couldn't help but feel the pit in his stomach drop further, nearly turning acidic with the growing days as others stopped by every now and again. No material possession could or would change anything. It left him hollow and more so by the day because there would be a time it would all be meaningless.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself.

So perhaps if he told himself enough that Stanley wouldn't be okay, he would be wrong about that too.

The sweater laid over his lap, no longer properly folded and hadn't been for sometime, left a constant reminder of it all. Every now and again, he found himself clutching the fabric in a vice grip. Others, he would mindlessly runs his fingers over its softness, lost in his own thoughts. There were other moments, however, where he found himself staring down at it. Mabel brought it as soon as she possibly could, and he was sure to tell her how much he knew Stanley would love it. 

Or at least he assumed Stanley would.

He didn't quite know, if he were to be honest with himself for once. When they were younger, Stanley enjoyed the color red. The color on his favorite shirt, on his boxing gloves, and his car that the two of them would ride in, to school and to the beach where they worked on the Stan o' War.

The same car he heard him drive off into the night and plowing over metal trash cans.

But now no one could do red. Red was a stain in their minds, in their lives, and most assuredly in the town. Red left trails of blood, towers of fire, filled the sky with monsters and demons alike under the command of one so… He couldn't even give a proper word for it. And if he could, it surely wouldn't be anywhere near the true horrors.

So Mabel knit in shades of blue. A rich, rich royal blue that reminded him of deep ocean waters and cuffs of pale, baby blue that made him think of the clear blue sky that seemed to fade from his mind as the days drew longer. On the front, she stitched a fully blossomed sunflower, cheerily yellow. When she left it with him, her smile was sad, her eyes clouded with tears. He assured her that her Grunkle would love it, even if he himself wasn't quite sure.

Stanford Pines could be wrong, he told himself.

All along if anyone had been right, it most assuredly was his brother. 

“My brother is a dangerous know-it-all, and the stuff he's messing with is even worse.”

Stanley Pines wasn't wrong.

Stanley didn't force him away. Instead he watched as Stanford turned his back on him, at the time feeling too betrayed to get the answers he so desperately wanted, and too unnerved to say a word to his father, too wrapped up in his teenage rage to listen. Stanley never once done anything even close to such a thing before. In fact, he always supported him, and even when he won the science fair, Stanley tugged him into a tight hug when his photo was taken. Stanley was proud of him. If Stanley was so proud, why would he shatter his project, his trust, his future?

No.

He ruined that himself.

His brother always stood up for him when he couldn't himself. Never once did he question the oddity of his six fingers. In fact, he can remember times when Stanley would sit beside him and toy with them, running his own fingers over the calluses and lines. If anything, Stanley was awed, and one of the things he enjoyed doing the most was slipping their fingers together, Stanford's six neatly holding his five, fitting better than if he too had five fingers.

In those days, they were a dynamic duo. Two pieces of a whole, and looking back on it now, Stanford could say his brother was his better half. Not because he defended him, not because he made him feel normal, not because he supported him. Looking back on it now, Stanley kept him in check. Pride was his sin, and there once was a time he refused to admit to any, especially that one.

He easily had his chance thirty years ago, but his mind was too rattled, his skin and nerves jolting at every sound, every movement, even after his brother arrived. Perhaps he shouldn't have. Despite everything, he still trusted Stanley, was the only one he could trust. Stanley believed him. The look of concern as he prattled on, the comforting hand on his shoulder, a pleasant weight, it was all only a brief relief that his brother was safe, he wasn't possessed… He had his moment, and he tossed it aside with the only thought on his mind was that of safety, too wrapped up in his mistakes and sins that he didn't have the courage to confess to.

Stanley Pines was safe, he told himself then.

Stanley Pines could still stay safe, he told himself then.

Stanley Pines wasn't safe, he told himself now.

The expression on his face back then, so scruffy and rough that thinking back on it, he should have noticed…. That expression which long since blurred in the back of his mind, smeared by his own inflated ego. And perhaps he didn't deserve such a pleasant memory of being comforted.

If there was one from that day he deserved, it was the howls of pain and smell of burnt cloth and flesh. Looking back, it was only the tip of the iceberg of something much more horrifying to come. But back then, all he knew was guilt. It wasn't his intention to hurt Stanley, not what was supposed to happen. All he wanted was help, not to hurt the one person he had left. He branded his brother like an animal, and Stanley obviously felt the same if his sucker punch to the face said anything. In a sense, he couldn't say he himself would have done otherwise.

In fact, he did end up doing just the same.

In his final moments, he wanted to be saved. He trusted his brother to do the smart thing, to help him in his moment of terror. As the years in unknown worlds, he realize it wasn't the smart thing, not in the slightest.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself

After thirty years, having long since abandoned the idea of returning to his home, he returned the punch. Despite Stanley's hurt, he couldn't thank him. He pleaded to be saved, but he shouldn't have. The good of the one isn't worth the lives of the many. Stanley didn't see it that way however, and the cost of his actions proved deadly. Stanford couldn't tell him about the Rift, he wouldn't. He had too much to lose, but perhaps he had lost it the moment he opened his mouth.

Stanley didn't need to know what his life's work unknowingly created the Rift. He didn't need to bear that burden. But Stanford did. He reveled in the praise of a creature who called itself a muse, who he later saw as a deity, decorating his home in its image like a growing shrine. He let his pride grow, his ego swell. In the end, it made him fall with the weight of his assumed self-worth. What he once thought of as prized gold, proved to be nothing more than worthless stone. His brother only did what he begged of him all those years ago as his final words to him. Both of them assumed they would be their very last. Looking back then, Stanford almost wished they were. He stuck to his mantra all of that time, insisting that Stanley would do the smart thing, the right thing. He wasn't an idiot, he wasn't that reckless.

Stanford Pines was wrong in the most bitter-sweet of ways.

When he returned, fatigue struck him hard only rivaled by rage, enraged that his brother was so attached that he could have brought about the end of the world. The next day, however, regret struck him. Stanley wasn't an idiot, just a loving brother who wanted carry out his final words and fix his own mistakes. No matter how he himself viewed it, they were Stanford's own mistakes, and his actions that night were just another added to the list. His third strike.

He wouldn't admit his was wrong, though. He couldn't. It would mean telling him about the Rift, and that was a guilt he refused to put on his brother. So instead, he did what he could.

When the cycloptopus escaped its cage, he chased it up the elevator, the stairs, and into the gift shop where he knew the family was. Admittedly, he put on a bigger show than necessary, but he needed to prove himself. He wanted Stanley's approval, some sign that perhaps, just maybe, things might be just a touch all right. Instead, he shooed him off, and Stanford merely huffed and left. Part of him wanted to think differently, that his brother just put on a stone face to mask his feelings as per always. Part of him wished he didn't.

“My brother is a dangerous know-it-all, and the stuff he's messing with is even worse.”

He made his mistakes, he did some things he wouldn't dare admit, but for his brother to say such without even knowing of some of his darkest moments….

Stanley Pines was right, he told himself.

But he didn't give up, the stubborn man he always was. He didn't keep his promise of staying in the basement, to leave the children alone, but even when hit in the face of yet another mistake he refused to admit, he instead swept it under the rug and saw a new opportunity.

“What? Now you listen to me! I will never… ever… play your smartypants nerd game!”

His and Dipper's cries fell on deaf ears, Stanley's anger with him blinding the opportunity he offered. Yet the one thing he could relish from that moment was that his brother still chose to come save him, and if for some reason he didn't, he would make himself believe it.

When he finally began to settle back in his own bedroom, the one thing that somehow managed to be his, he happened another opportunity. The kitchen light bulb went out, and Stanley always seemed to huff and puff about spending money if he could avoid it. Logically, making a light bulb that never needed to be replaced seemed like the perfect solution.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself.

Instead of a sparse word of thanks, he got the view of his brother's back. Yet a better opportunity came when Dipper visited him in his laboratory to vent his distress over Stanley's lack of tact in his election campaign for Mayor. While he wasn't quite certain of it at the time, he still offered the best solution at hand to his nephew and gave him the ties without a second thought. The situation was more along the line of an emergency, and if it worked for Reagan, it would work for Stanley without a doubt.

He never managed to hear the results, however.

Considering his brother didn't seem to win, perhaps that was a good thing.

But in the current, it didn't matter. None of it truly mattered if at the end of his chain of sins and mistakes lead him to his brother's death bed.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself.

Stanley Pines didn't ruin Stanford's life.

Stanford Pines ruined Stanley's life.

And if anyone ruined his own, it certainly couldn't be anyone else. He didn't have that luxury anymore. He lost it a lifetime ago, leaving nothing more than faded and smeared memories and searing, burning living nightmares.

Searing and burning.

They weren't the most tactful of words, but they were fitting nonetheless.

He found his fingers picking at the sunflower of his brother's sweater again and quickly pulled his hand away. Swallowing thickly, he lifted Stanley's fez and tugged the sweater out of his lap. Replacing the fez in its spot, he folded the sweater loosely, a bit sloppily, and set it down on the bed. The white sheets bared a stark different to the bundle of blues and yellow, but it was better than red. If Stanford never saw the color again, it would be too soon. He long since been rid of his sweater, stuffing it in the back of a closet on the highest shelf. It wasn't quite out of sight, but he would find something to put in front of it later. He couldn't bare to destroy it quite yet. It was the least of his worries at the moment. There would be time later to be rid of the stain, no matter how it all ended, but he wanted it to end well.

But Stanford Pines was wrong.

He always had been wrong.

So for the first time in ages, he insisted on logic he didn't believe in, telling himself over and over that his brother wouldn't be all right because perhaps if he said it enough, he would be wrong again.

Stanley Pines was foolish.

Stanley Pines was suffocating

Stanley Pines could do nothing right.

Stanley Pines was not okay.

Stanley Pines was not safe.

They became his new mantra, though he never dared speak them aloud because if he did, he knew everyone would believe him. To them, it would be more logical than any of his actions portrayed in the past. Honestly, he couldn't blame them. He was a man of logic and being a stickler for such became his own undoing.

He should have sought out answers the night Stanley was kicked out, recklessly driving into the night. God did he try at first. He knew there was something off, something didn't add right, the equation made no sense. Yet like the easily persuaded child he truly was at the time, he listened to his father because in that moment his words were the most logical part of the whole incident.

“He was smothering you, keeping you from reaching your fullest potential. If you weren't always lagging behind him, you could have gone places. Instead, you let him ride on your coattails and be dragged down with him. Your brother at least has personality. With that, he'll be just fine. Everyone loves charisma.”

The easiest solution wasn't always the correct solution, though. So instead of speaking his thoughts, confessing to all his mistakes and sins, he sat in a stiff chair in a small white room holding a small red fez that he wasn't sure he would be able to properly return. When he originally found it, it was a tattered mess that he wasn't sure could be salvaged and some told he it couldn't be. Ever the stubborn fool he was, he ignored it all and spent the first full days he could properly spend in the room with cloth and thread he managed to pull together. He was better with stitching wounds, though. His work was shoddy, and part of him felt a bit disgusted with himself for allowing it to happen, but he wouldn't admit to it.

He couldn't.

He couldn't afford to.

The days long since blurred together, and whether they turned to weeks or months or otherwise, Stanford couldn't tell. Part of him honestly didn't care. So instead of counting days, counting gifts, counting breaths, he merely sat and thought. So when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, his hands clutched onto his brother's fez, and his own breathing halted, almost not daring to make a sound. Hesitantly, he looked up from the battered hat as though he were afraid it to be but another heart wrenching dream.

In the bed, Stanley shifted again before opening his eyes, blearily blinking up at the ceiling. Stanford's body went ridged, jaw working for a moment to say something, anything, yet nothing managed to escape his throat.

Stanley groaned, squinting. He heard something hit the floor and quickly turned his gaze, moving his head with a slight wince. His brother sat wide eyed on the edge of his chair, rounded glasses and disheveled hair making him look more owlish than ever. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but his memory blurred so badly that it very well might have. Stanley rolled his tongue in his mouth for a moment before finally speaking.

“Ford…?” The words came out hoarse, but Stanford could still hear them clear as day. His body jolted forward on instinct, but stopped himself from touching his brother. He already done enough damage.

“St-Stanley…!” A tired grin split across his face with a weak but joyful laugh. He braced his hands beside his brother's arm, mind reeling for something, anything to say next. The whole time he spent waiting for him to wake up, milling over his own mistakes. The one time he hoped to be wrong, he never once thought of what to do after words. So instead, he said the first two words that came to mind, even if they weren't the ones Stanley expected after so long.

“I...I'm sorry.” 

Stanley stared up at him for a moment before moving to sit up, “What are you- Hey!”

In a flash, Stanford's hands braced against his chest, not pushing but not budging in the slightest.

“Don't move! Just lay there for a moment....Please,” He said quietly.

His brother sucked in a breath but did as told, pain briefly flashing through him. “Do you want to explain to me what happened? Something must have really wrenched your arm if you're sayin' please.”

Dismissing it as a joke, Stanford hesitated once more before slowly sinking back into his chair. He bent over to pick up the fez and tugged himself closer to the bed.

“It may be best if you don't remember, but I suppose you do deserve that right,” He said, thumb toying with the tassel.

Without his glasses, Stanley couldn't quite see all of it all too well. So instead he snorted, eyes still digging into him. “I'd think so.”

Clearing his throat, he sat up straighter and paused briefly. “The easiest way I can explain it is that Cipher and you fought, and thought it would be hilarious to...” 

He took a moment to distract the both of them, leaning over to grab his brother's glasses. Unfolding them, he leaned forward and carefully slid them on. Stanley blinked a few more times and squinted, eye adjusting to wearing them after so long. Before he could prod at Stanford, he spoke again, voice with an edge of distress.

“To 'see a pine tree burn'.” 

Finally having his gaze focused, he looked up at his brother and frowned deeply. He looked worse than any time he saw his brother working late at night, and it might have even rivaled his state thirty years ago, but after so long it was just a dark haze in the back of his mind. The trench coat he wore for so long was draped across the back of his chair and bags sat beneath his eyes like smears of ink. But one of the first things he noticed was his red sweater or therefor lack of. Instead, he wore a black sweater, not too unlike his red when he first came home. Part of him wouldn't be too surprised if it ended up being the same one.

“Where's the thing now?” He grunted, also not daring to properly label the demon.

Stanford cracked a small smile, “Gone. It's not ever coming back. Everyone is...” He paused, sitting up perfectly straight. His brother caste him a confused, almost worried look, a chill dropping in his stomach.

“What? Everyone is what, Stanford?”

“Everyone is safe. Everyone is perfectly okay.” 

Stanley stared at his brother, confusion not leaving his face as he watched him rake a hand through his mess of hair.

“I was wrong,” He huffed with a laugh.

“Ford, seriously, what's gotten into you? What… Did you get possessed or somethin'?”

Instead of properly responding, Stanford looked pointedly down at his brother's fez still sitting in his lap. He followed his gaze, eyes widening at the sight of it.

“...Where'd you get that?”

With a deep breath, he lifted it from his lap and set it beside his brother. “I found it,” He said simply.

Stanley looked between his brother, his fez, and back again before cracking a small, withered smile. “Thanks, Sixer.”

He sat quietly as Stanley shifted slight to sit up a bit, nerves tensing until he set the fez atop his head, in its proper place.

“...Thank you, Stan.”

Stanley Pines was not safe, he once told himself.

Stanford Pines was wrong, he told himself.

Stanley Pines was safe, he told himself.

For the very first time in his life, Stanford couldn't be more pleased to be wrong.


End file.
